


Eight Kisses

by anythingbutgrief



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, M/M, kinda stream-of-consciousness mess, my usual schtick, so you know, sorta???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 11:07:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutgrief/pseuds/anythingbutgrief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Indirect references to the events of 3x06 and description of trauma.

"I can see your veins, you know," Ian whispered, so close to his ear Mickey could feel breath hit his lobe.

"Hm?"

"Through your skin. ‘Cause you’re so pale."

"Fuck off," Mickey grunted, but his throat was still in near-sleep mode so his voice didn’t come off nearly as irritated as it should have. "You are, too."

He could feel Ian’s fingers trail up his wrists, tickling the hairs on his forearm, without even opening his eyes. Ian spoke as though he hadn’t heard Mickey’s protest. “Blue.” Ian’s fingers dipped back down to trace the vein that stood out on Mickey’s hand, and then a second later they were on Mickey’s face, right above his eyebrows, moving in slow circles around his temples and back to his forehead, his touch pushing Mickey further back against the makeshift pillow of Ian’s discarded shirt, balled-up beneath Mickey’s head. ”Blue,” he whispered again, and Mickey’s pulse pounded against Ian’s palm, his fingertips, his lips.

Tomorrow would be red. Tomorrow would be black. But they didn’t know that yet.

When Mickey spoke he could feel his own lips brush against Ian’s neck. “Remind me never to let you sleep over again,” he said, and faked a yawn. “You get fucking weird at night,” Mickey added, each word soft and slow against the flutter in Ian’s neck, each syllable its own kiss.

***

Each kiss was its own syllable. That’s how it was supposed to work. He pressed his mouth so hard onto Ian’s that the impact sent Mickey’s teeth cutting into his own inner lip, and he swallowed the pain, ripping off his own jacket, and set about licking messages into Ian’s mouth: _Take me with you. Take me. Please. Keep me safe. A part of me has to go out there and do this in front of all those people, so hold on to the rest of me, please? Please? Take me?_

And Ian had groaned at it, had clutched at Mickey’s hair, hard, had smiled against Mickey’s chin when they broke apart for air, had smiled against Mickey’s neck when he started to thrust inside him, so Mickey heard: _Yes. Yes, of course. I take you. I do._

Mickey dropped tiny kisses, soft as tears, against Ian’s shoulders, one for each freckle, one for each time he thought, _I do, I do, I do, I do, I do, I do._

***

Mickey did. Ian didn’t. Ian apparently didn’t hear any of that. Instead Ian in his big coat and long scarf and icy empty smile and hollowed defeated eyes had turned away, like it was nothing, like a life without kissing Mickey wasn’t impossible to imagine. But then, why would that ever be unthinkable? How could it have ever been any other way? Mickey turned away, too, nodded to himself, smoked and smoked and smoked and chewed his dry lips apart until they were red and wet with blood, unfit to be kissed by anyone, like always.

They kissed the next night anyway, when he found Ian’s shirt in between the wall and the bed, and kissed the night after that, and the night after that, his useless speechless torn mouth pressing against the sleeves, where Ian’s shoulders had been.

 _Come home_ , his lips pressed into damp empty fabric. _He’s not coming home_ , Mickey heard, as if the shirt had kissed back. _Come home, come home, he’s not coming home, come home, he’s not_.

***

It was halfway through the kiss before Mickey remembered that Ian was practically naked, and his first thought was _Oh, fuck, you must be freezing_ , so he yanked Ian closer with his free hand, as close as they could be without fucking, and tugged Ian’s tongue deeper into his own mouth, like Mickey’s body was a fire kindled to keep Ian warm.

Ian’s smile, Ian’s panting breaths, Ian’s sweat starting to bead under Mickey’s hands, Ian’s hands gripping Mickey like he was sand between his fingers, Ian’s lips opening and closing and yielding and pushing and healing him, all whispering, _Home. You’re home_.

Mickey wanted to pull back and say, “That’s my line, asshole,” but he didn’t, instead pressing his forehead against Ian’s, pressing his soul into his mouth, whispering back, _Yes. Now fucking stay_.

***

Mickey’s hands had no right to be shaking the way they were, not when the night had gone better than he could have even planned. Money and a watch in his pocket and the softest pillow he’d ever felt supporting his body and him and Ian alone in this hotel room together for the rest of the night, the first time they had shared a bed since….since…..

Oh.

Ian’s fingers traced over his wrists again now, and Mickey’s hands shook harder. “You okay?”

Mickey swallowed, closed his eyes, thought of his wife’s words in the kitchen this morning, thought of that morning, and shook his head like the images could be dislodged through force. “You’re _not_ okay?” Ian prompted, and gripped onto his wrists harder, Ian’s pulse fast against Mickey’s flesh, _too_ fast, scary fast, but—

"Fine," Mickey murmured, and opened his eyes to see Ian staring at him, but not questioning or confused or lost, like he expected him to be. Ian’s gaze burned him, like he knew exactly what was in Mickey’s head, like he wanted to set every last fragment of those images on fire.

Instead, Ian brought Mickey’s wrists up to his mouth, pressing his lips against the veins. “It’s okay.” His mouth was hard against Mickey’s skin. “It’s okay,” Ian whispered, while his kisses insisted, _it’s not okay it’s not okay it’s not okay it’s not okay but I can make it I can make it okay let me make it it’s not okay it’s not okay it’s not okay._

Mickey inched over in bed until he was pressed against Ian’s neck again, just like that night, and this time his kisses were deliberate, soft, soothing. “Sleep,” he said out loud. “Sleep.” _Nothing’s going to happen to us when we wake up, not this time, not yet_.

***

It was snowing again when they walked home from the hospital. Mickey would have stayed if Ian wanted to wait around to see what happened with the liver, but Ian was power-walking so fast away from the place he was practically skipping, the spring in his step back into motion. Even springier, like Ian was determined to war the weather with his mood. “It’s so pretty out,” he said over his shoulder to Mickey, who struggled to keep pace, pushing his shorter legs as far as they could go to catch up. Ian avoided his eyes when he did, finally, and Mickey knew he wasn’t warring the weather at all. _It’s so pretty out, it’s so nice out, it’s such a nice day, I didn’t almost stab somebody earlier, we are **not** talking about this._

Mickey glanced around the empty street before grabbing Ian’s cold pale hand and bringing it to his own numb mouth. He pressed kisses against Ian’s knuckles, his teeth chattering against the cold. _I am not losing you. I am not_.

***

The sunlight shot through Mickey’s skull like a bullet the second he opened his eyes. His jaw felt like it had been torn into pieces, he felt the scabs on his chin and nose and forehead stinging, and the bones in his hands creaked like half-rotted wooden steps when he made an experimental fist.

But Ian’s fingers were in his hair, Ian’s lips against his ear, his temple, his cheek, his neck. "Good morning," Mickey heard himself whisper.

"It is," Ian responded, kissing Mickey’s shoulder, and Mickey didn’t have to turn around to tell that Ian’s eyes were full of tears. "It is."

When Mickey turned, met Ian’s mouth with his own, he could only marvel that for the first time his kiss and his words said the same exact thing. He wanted to say it over and over again, on Ian’s eyebrows, Ian’s eyelids, his cheekbones, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, his nipples and stomach and hipbones and elbows and waist and thighs and ankles and knees, in that order, in every order.

He could do that now. So he did. _I do, I do, I do._

 _I do_ , Ian’s lips assured back, even as his chin trembled under Mickey’s touch. _I do_.

***

It had been months. Instead Mickey kissed cigarettes, more than he should, he knew, but what was the point? It wasn’t like he could breathe anyway, with Ian curled in on himself like he’d developed an allergy to living.

But it had been weeks now, since Ian was “okay.” That was the way it sounded when Ian said it, like he’d been using air-quotes without telling anybody. “I’m ‘okay,’” he would say, insisting on the word so much it sounded false. But Mickey would take it. It wasn’t fair to demand more than that from Ian, to tell him, no, but you must be happy, no, but you must be perfect, no, but you must feel fully alive again, when Ian had fought so hard to reach “okay.”

Today Mickey saw Ian sitting up in bed, bent over his notebook again, a look of concentration on his face as he wrote a line and crossed it out. He wrote another one and erased what he’d just created in a frustrated flurry. Mickey hesitated on the question that he wanted to ask, because it was always loaded now, it could never be casual again. But then, Mickey wouldn’t ever want it to be casual, small talk, meaningless. So he cleared his throat and sat on the edge of the bed, several safe inches between them. “How are you today?” Mickey said, picking at the fabric of the bedspread, not looking at Ian right away, but Ian wouldn’t answer until he met his eyes.

"Blue," Ian said, his crooked half-smile across his face even as his eyes still had that sad expression in them that Mickey feared was becoming permanent. Ian shifted closer to him on the bed, pushing the notebook aside without breaking eye contact. "I feel blue," Ian continued, stroking over the vein in Mickey’s neck, and Mickey felt his heart pick up, shaking in his chest like it was just being awoken. "Do you remember that?"

Mickey nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember.” He leaned forward, leaving some space between them, asking silent permission, and Ian closed his eyes, granting it. Mickey pressed his lips against the veins in Ian’s forehead, visible through the skin.

"I can work with blue," Ian whispered. His hand guided Mickey’s chin down, cupped his jaw as he brought their mouths together. Ian’s lips were raw and dry and cracked and he kissed Mickey like the world was ending.

Mickey kissed Ian like it wasn’t.

_I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you._

When they pulled back, just the barest millimeter, Mickey’s words were a wet secret passed back and forth between their mouths. “Me, too.”


End file.
